by Hazel Hunter
“Officer,” he said to the largest of the three. “Clear this corridor. If these folks can’t stay in their rooms, we’ll evacuate the entire floor and they can find somewhere else to loiter.”
“Yessir,” said the man. He motioned another uniformed officer to move left and he went to the right, spreading his arms almost across the entire width of the corridor. “Okay folks. That’s it. Time to go.”
“Take me through it, sergeant,” Mac said, turning back to the tiny room.
Dressed in a dark gray suit that was slightly too large for his lean frame, the young, black police sergeant removed a notepad from the interior pocket of his jacket. Isabelle hovered near the door and was looking into what appeared to be a small closet.
“Jodie Ashmont, the roommate,” Sergeant Dixon said, reading from his notepad, “called campus police this morning when she realized that the victim’s bed hadn’t been slept in last night.” He pointed down to the twin on the right side of the room. Across from it, on the left, was presumably the roommate’s bed. In fact, everything in the cramped space was mirrored: two desks, two chairs, two single-door closets near the front door with identical mirrors hung on the inside of the doors and narrow wire baskets suspended underneath them with sundry toiletry items. “The last time Jodie saw Esme was yesterday when she left for a morning run, which she did every day.” He flipped to the next page. “She didn’t see what she was wearing or note the exact time.”
Twenty-four hours, thought Mac. A whole day before anyone had even noticed that she was missing. The most important time period when it came to solving any crime, the first twenty-four hours was precious and invaluable but now it was gone.
He opened the desk drawer, looking for anything that might help to characterize Esme more than the interviews with Ben and Anita had already done. An assortment of pens, pencils, highlighters and push-pins in an organizing tray was no help. He pulled open the drawer next to it: sticky notes and envelopes. The drawer below that held pads of paper and a new notebook. He leafed through everything. No checkbook for more information on her finances, no journal or diary to judge her frame of mind.
“No one else on the floor remembers seeing her that day,” the sergeant said, as Mac upended Esme’s backpack on the bed. He rifled through the textbooks, consistent with her economics major. No phone but her wallet was there, consistent with the jog. The wallet held student ID, a credit card, which Mac already knew was linked to her parents account and hadn’t been accessed since her disappearance. Movie posters on the wall above the bed included one for Lord of the Rings, one from Star Wars, and also Gone with the Wind. Everything pointed to Esme being your average freshman. And that didn’t help victimology. Nothing about her family, her schoolwork, her personality, her likes or dislikes indicated what might have contributed to her being a victim. By all accounts, she had not been emotionally vulnerable.
Mac shook his head. The abductor had selected her on his terms and, at present, they had no insight into him.
In his peripheral vision, Isabelle crouched at the foot of the open closet. But when he looked over at her, he realized that she’d picked up something and she’d removed the latex glove.
“Hey!” he started, as she stood up holding a running shoe.
“A running track,” Isabelle said quickly as she stood, staring blankly into the closet. “There are bleachers, metal, a stadium on one side. The track is red and spongy. White lines in it. Round and round.” Her chest heaved as she sucked in a breath and then she plunged on. “Now there’s a dirt path with exercise stations. Metal bars with pealing paint. The gravel on the path is crunchy. Early morning.”
Mac stared at her, listening to the stream of babbling.
So this is the act, he thought, but it also afforded him an opportunity to quickly study her. Small-boned and delicate, her chestnut-colored hair fell in long waves to mid-back. Her high cheekbones, full mouth and light, olive skin suggested more than just the English ancestry of her last name–maybe from her mother’s side. That might also explain the strikingly pale, amber eyes. He also noted that her shapely legs were consistent with the curves of her hourglass figure.
“The brick buildings aren’t tall,” she breathed. “The grass is nice to run on, soft.”
“Ma’am,” said Sergeant Dixon. “Please don’t touch anything.”
But Isabelle didn’t appear to have heard him. Her breathing was rapid and shallow and she gripped the shoe so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. Her hand began to shake.
“Ma’am,” the sergeant tried again.
Mac had seen enough.
“Miss de Grey,” he said loudly, stepping toward her.
She dropped the shoe.
“Let me be very clear,” he said and paused.
He waited for a moment for her to look at him but she didn’t. She continued to stare into the closet. He scowled a bit as he watched her. This might work for her clients but not for him–not for any profiler worth their salt. Vague predictions, a scattershot of random observations. Those were the tools of the psychic. He’d just heard it himself. It was classic. They also dwelled on the obvious, which he was just about to point out, when Isabelle started to sway. She held out a trembling hand to the bed next to her and, reacting instinctively, Mac lunged forward.
“No you don’t,” he said, grasping her hand. “Don’t touch anything.”
• • • • •
Even as Isabelle screamed “No!” she knew it was too late. The reading came hard and fast.
Concern for her. Worry about Ben–his skin looked gray. Where is the damn campus map? Don’t touch anything! Her shapely legs. Time is running out. A woman, a brunette, in his bed. The agony of loss. Psychobabble. Nothing on the abductor. Nothing! Don’t touch anything.
She snatched her hand from his and nearly toppled backward. Only Mac’s grip on her arm prevented her from doing just that.
“Don’t ever,” she managed to get out between gasping breaths, “touch my hands. Not ever.”
As the room slowly came into focus, she shook loose from his grip and quickly covered her bare hand with the latex-gloved one, clutching it to her chest. It’d been months since she’d read anyone and this was why. A moment of nausea swept over her and suddenly the already warm room was too hot. She focused on Mac’s tie, dark blue.
“Well if you hadn’t taken your gloves off and touched something–”
“That’s how I work,” she said, standing straighter, concentrating on his face now. “I–”
“I don’t care if it’s how you live and breathe,” Mac said evenly.
Though he’d backed up, giving her space, his large physique still loomed. The handsome face, with its square jaw and deeply set eyes, was lent a sense of boyishness by his dark, short-cropped hair. But it was his eyes that were riveting, as though she were just now seeing them. They were the deepest, most intense, blue-green that she’d ever seen.
“You touch anything else,” he said slowly, enunciating each word, “and you are out of here. Do you hear me? I don’t care what Ben says.”
The images and emotions from the reading still reverberated in her head. Mac’s controlled exterior was just that. The buttoned-down agent was positively roiling inside. He was enraged about the abductor and deeply worried for Ben. His skin did look gray. She hadn’t noticed at the time. And he thinks I have shapely legs. Were it not for the dire circumstances, she might have smiled. Compared to most men, Special Agent MacMillan was a Boy Scout.
“Do you hear me?” Mac said.
She took a deep breath and slowly let it go. Two readings so close together wasn’t good. One was hard enough. She took a moment to run her fingers back through her hair but then looked him directly in the eye.
“It’s not psychobabble,” she said.
“What?” he said, staring at her.
More often than not, people weren’t explicitly aware of their own thoughts. Not even hearing them repeated verbatim registered but–as she
bent to her purse, she looked at him out of the corner of her eye–maybe Mac was an exception.
The sergeant cleared his throat.
“Did you say stadium?” he asked.
• • • • •
Psychobabble? Mac thought. That’s exactly the word I would have used.
Except that he hadn’t.
Though Isabelle initially appeared shaken, the act of putting on her own gloves seemed to calm her. The small tremble he had noticed in her hands disappeared and color had returned to her cheeks–the smooth skin a little less pale. But when he found himself focusing on her lips, an alarm went off in the back of his mind.
Time is running out.
“Let’s talk about the stadium in a moment,” Mac said, forcing himself to take his eyes off Isabelle and the glove ritual. “First, I want to talk to the roommate.”
A sour look crossed the sergeant’s face as he motioned to the officer standing at the door, who promptly left.
“Yes, Sergeant Dixon?” Mac said. “Is there a problem?”
“Well,” he said slowly. “She’s been a little less than helpful.”
“When can I get my stuff?” came a young woman’s voice from down the hallway. The three of them turned toward the doorway just as Esme’s roommate appeared. Wearing red plaid pajamas and fuzzy slippers that looked like giant mice, Jodie Ashton came to a sudden stop at the yellow tape, hands on hips, and glared at them all.
“When can I get my stuff?” she said, her voice high and shrill.
“Jodie,” Mac said, taking a business card from his jacket pocket. “I’m Special Agent MacMillan, this is Sergeant Dixon, and this is Isabelle de Grey.” He held out the card to Jodie. “I wish this didn’t inconvenience you and that I could pick a better time to do this but,” he shook his head slowly, “I’m afraid time is one thing we just don’t have.” He waited for her to take the card and watched her appraise him, in that way women usually did. He smiled, a genuine smile, and kept holding out the card and eventually Jodie’s expression softened and she took it.
“You know,” she said, less shrilly. “I’ve already been through this twice now.”
“I know,” Mac said, sounding full of sympathy while taking in the clothing, judging her age, and also her maturity level–which wasn’t as high as the age. “But it’d really help me out if you could answer a few questions.”
Jodie never stopped gazing into his eyes and she seemed to have forgotten she was holding his card. He decided to just go ahead and start.
“What do you know about where Esme likes to run?” Mac asked. “Is there any place in particular?”
“I don’t know,” Jodie replied, a little testy again. “We’re roommates, you know. Not like friends or anything. All I know is she gets up really early and goes running. But I guess the stadium’s the closest place to run.”
“Mmm hmm,” Isabelle murmured quietly.
Mac ignored her but Jodie glanced at her as though she hadn’t realized anyone was there. Shapely or not, Mac thought, Isabelle’s distraction wasn’t helping.
Where was that campus map he’d asked for?
“Does Esme often not come home at night?” Mac asked.
“Never,” said Jodie. “Not that I know of.” She paused and actually smiled. “But there’s always a first time. You know?”
Mac smiled pleasantly at her and nodded.
“Now, about this morning,” he said.
“I already told the policemen that I didn’t see her leave,” Jodie said, nearly pouting. “I don’t know what time it was.”
“Okay,” Mac said. “Just tell me what the usual morning is like. For example, how do you know she leaves for a run?”
“Because I hear that stupid velcro on her shorts, where she keeps her key,” Jodie answered immediately. “Every single morning. And her bed squeaks.” Jodie pointed to it.
Though Mac appeared to look back at the bed, he glanced at Isabelle standing near Sergeant Dixon, who was taking notes. She’d pursed her lips and was tapping her foot.
“So yesterday morning?” Mac said, turning back to Jodie.
He kept the questions open ended and let her do the talking now that he’d made the point of the conversation clear and established rapport.
Jodie nodded her head.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “Just like usual. Her phone goes off. The bed squeaks. The closet opens. The light comes on.” Her voice had taken on a sing-song quality. “The velcro rips.”
“Her phone goes off?” Mac asked.
“Yeah, she sets her alarm. Every morning at six.”
“Six?” asked Sergeant Dixon. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” Jodie said, as though it were obvious. “Every morning, the same.” Apparently Jodie was oblivious to the fact that she’d never mentioned a time before. “I used to check my phone but now I just roll over.”
“Look,” Isabelle said behind him. “We need to get to the stadium, to the exercise track with a gravel path, and to the grassy area near the brick buildings. We’re wasting time here.”
Mac ignored her.
Just then, a young uniformed police officer came up to the tape behind Jodie.
“Special Agent MacMillan?”
“Yes?” Mac said.
“I’ve got the campus map you requested. And we’re posting flyers of the missing girl around the campus and in local neighborhoods.”
“Good,” Mac said curtly, heading to the door and ducking under the tape. “I want everyone in this dorm questioned about their whereabouts yesterday morning, between six and seven am–students, staff, everybody,” he said, taking off the gloves and booties. “Tell your lieutenant that I want to pull in as many uniformed bodies as needed and get it done quick.”
“Yessir,” the man said as he handed Mac the map, spun on his heel, and trotted off.
“Sergeant?” Mac said.
“Yessir.”
“I take it you’re familiar with the campus?”
The sergeant ducked under the tape and held it for Isabelle, who followed him out. As she passed under the sergeant’s hand, Mac was aware that the sergeant was watching her. The light dress clung to her in all the right places.
“Sergeant?” Mac said.
“Uh, yessir,” he said quickly. “The stadium is walking distance and,” he paused, “Isabelle is right. The other places that the students like to run are the jogging track that circumnavigates the campus and the intramural field, next to the stadium, adjacent to the brick gyms.”
Isabelle made a small harrumphing sound that clearly said I told you so. Again, Mac ignored her.
“Jodie,” he said turning to her. “Thanks for your help. You’ll be able to get into your room as soon as forensics is done.” He looked down the hallway to a trio of agents dressed from head to foot in clean-room suits and carrying bright, orange tool cases. He waved them over. “Hopefully it won’t be too long.”
“Let’s go then,” Mac said to the sergeant. “When someone disappears during their morning run, it only stands to reason that the most likely places to search are going to be the standard running venues that virtually any campus will have. It’s not rocket science,” he said pointedly, returning Isabelle’s glare. And it’s not ESP either, he thought. “But it’s the most logical place to start.”
The sergeant’s phone rang and he immediately answered.
“Dixon,” he said.
As forensics arrived, Mac pointed at Isabelle. “Get a cheek swab from her.”
A little look of consternation flitted across Isabelle’s delicate features and he would have chided her about not following protocol but something in the sergeant’s stance had changed. Something had happened.
“Be there in five,” the sergeant said and snapped the phone closed. “A tip,” he said. “A real one.”
CHAPTER THREE
For such a large campus, the police station seemed tiny. Isabelle glanced around the sterile lobby as the three of them were ushered through into an ev
en more barren cubby-hole of a room. A young man, maybe twenty, sat there waiting alone. He was thin with stringy brown hair and fuzzy stubble that looked as though he’d tried to grow it for weeks. On the single small table rested his overstuffed backpack and, under it, was a battered skateboard. He sat up straighter as they entered the room.
Special Agent MacMillan wasted no time.
“Brendan,” he said. “I’m Special Agent MacMillan, this is Sergeant Dixon, and this is Isabelle de Grey.” She was starting to get used to hearing their names all together. “Thanks very much for coming down here to help us out.” Brendan bobbed his head once, looking at the three of them. He smiled nervously at her but Mac quickly cut off his view by half-sitting on the table. “Can you tell me what you saw?”
With the only chair in the room occupied, Isabelle moved to the closest corner as the sergeant closed the door and went to his own corner.
As though it was the moment he’d been waiting for, Brendan grinned broadly.
“I saw her yesterday morning, about 6:30, outside Parking Structure Eight,” he said quickly.
“Structure Eight?” Mac said, turning his head to the sergeant, though never taking his eyes off Brendan.
“Right next to the intramural field,” the sergeant replied.
Mac nodded.
“She was with a man,” Brendan said.
As though electricity had run through the room, the suddenly still air seemed to crackle.
“Go on,” Mac said.
“He was taller than her and wore dark slacks and a matching jacket, like a suit.”
They all waited. She and the sergeant exchanged looks.
“And what did he look like?” Mac asked.
“I told you,” Brendan said. “He wore–”
“What did his face look like?” Mac asked.
“I didn’t see it,” Brendan said, no longer grinning. “They were walking away from me, into the parking structure.”
“Color of his hair?” Mac said.
“Brown,” Brendan said. Then he glanced nervously at Isabelle. “No. Wait. Maybe black.”